


As We Go On, We'll Remember

by vogonssuck



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogonssuck/pseuds/vogonssuck
Summary: Bill attends Derry Middle School's eighth grade graduation ceremony.





	As We Go On, We'll Remember

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked for Bill Denbrough emotions and that's what this is. AKA Zack and Sharon Denbrough are terrible parents.

_ “As we go on, we remember / all the times we had together _

_ As our lives change, come whatever / We will still be friends forever” _

 

Bill Denbrough fidgeted with the clip of his tie in an attempt to get it to lie flat against his button-down. His efforts were in vain, though – it sprang slightly to the left as soon as he took his hand off it.  _ Just great,  _ he thought. 

 

He took a step back to survey himself in the mirror. He had tried to iron his dress shirt himself, resulting in an unfortunate sharkbite-shaped burn just above the hem on the front. It was mostly covered when he tucked the shirt in, but a small sliver of the singed fabric was still visible. It taunted him from its perch above the waistband of his pants. Aside from that and his wayward tie, he thought, he looked pretty put-together. “What do you th-thuh-think, Juh-George?” 

 

His younger brother beamed at him from a 3x5” photo wedged between the surface of the mirror and its wooden frame. He was all missing front teeth and golden blond hair and overalls, and to Bill the picture was so vital that he thought for a moment it might really respond. When it didn’t, he plucked it from its spot on the mirror and tucked it into the front pocket of his shirt.

 

“Muh-mom! I’m reh-heady to go!” he yelled down the hall as he pulled his bedroom door shut and bounded down the stairs. “Mom?”

 

He found Sharon Denbrough bracing herself against the counter with one hand and massaging her temple with the other. She inclined her head slightly to look at him as he entered, and then blanched and looked down, hard, as if she were on the brink of vomiting.

 

“M-muh-Mom? What’s ruh-ron –” 

 

“Bill.” The word was short and low, very nearly hissed. Bill could hear equal parts urgency and anger in his father’s voice as he turned to face him. “Leave your mother alone.”

 

“Buh-buh-but we need to l-leave for grah-grad-gradu…” Zack Denbrough held up a hand to silence him and pointed at the front door. 

 

“She’s not feeling well. Go to the car.” 

 

An  _ and it’s your fault  _ hung thickly in the air, unspoken. Just as it did when his father stared blankly at papers sprawled on his desk for hours, not taking in any of the words, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense.  Just as it did when the smoke detector sounded because his mother had started sobbing while cooking dinner, again. Those words floated down and settled around him as he lay in bed, hungry and wracked with guilt.  _ It’s your fault, Bill, you did this to us. You did this and you can’t remember how or why.  _

 

Bill stared at the back of the passenger’s seat of his dad’s car for the duration of their drive to Derry Middle School, swallowing hard on the lump in his throat. He couldn’t seem to will it away. 

 

After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the entrance to the middle school’s gymnasium and Bill exited the car and walked inside. He was swept up in a flurry of motion as he entered the room – parents crouched to take photos of their 8th-grade graduates and craned to straighten their ties or smooth their curls. A smallish black-haired boy in a bow-tie looked absolutely miserable as a large woman in a garish caftan fussed over his collar, and Bill shot him a sympathetic grimace as he made his way towards the rows of foldable chairs in front of the stage. 

 

“If everyone could make their way to their seats…” a voice crackled over the gymnasium’s sound system and then trailed off. Parents shuffled to the bleachers while their starched and coiffed children each took seats in the identical metal chairs surrounding Bill.

 

First the school’s principal and then a few other teachers addressed the kids. The room was thrumming with the excitement of kids about to be high-schoolers. Guys slugged their friends in the shoulders and laughed quietly about it, harder when they noticed parents and teachers glaring at them. Girls clutched each others’ arms and whispered to one another. Bill stared down at his upturned palms and released a metered breath.  

 

_ “We wish our eighth graders the best of luck in high school…”  _ Lord knows I need it, thought Bill.

 

_ “And we know the friends they’ve made here at Derry Middle will see them through.” _

 

The phrase hit him like a sock in the gut.  _Friends._

 

Sometimes, Bill woke up in the middle of the night sweating and thrashing in abject terror. In those brief moments, he was flooded with memories that he feared were his own, though he couldn’t remember ever living them. Sometimes they were concrete. Rows of sharp teeth, a hazy orange light, the nauseous snap of broken bones, shrieks bouncing off damp concrete and stealing around corners. But more often, they were remembered feelings. Bill felt as though he’d let someone down, maybe a lot of someones. As though he’d gotten into a situation seven times too big for him to handle and put the people he loved up for collateral. As though he’d condemned Georgie to his death. 

 

Before Bill could quite comprehend what was happening, he was being shuffled to the side of the stage. His classmates were forming a line. Each student would walk across the stage, pause to shake the principal’s hand, accept a diploma in the form of a photocopied paper scroll, and be on their respective ways. 

 

The line was halting. With the handoff of each scroll came thunderous bursts of applause and whoops of congratulation. Some students struck a pose and waited for the flashbulbs of their parents’ cameras to cease before stepping down the stairs on the opposite side. 

 

A particularly loud yell jarred Bill from his thoughts, and he looked up at the student on the stage. A tallish kid in Coke-bottle glasses made an obscene gesture with the scroll before high-fiving the principal and taking all the stairs in one leaping bound. Bill’s heart skipped a beat. 

 

A red-haired girl with electric eyes walked up after him, bracelets clacking against one another as she shook some teacher’s hand. As she descended the steps, the kid with glasses swept her up in a hug and spun her. 

 

The kid behind Bill nudged him to move him forward, and Bill started and whirled around. The kid gave him a questioning look. Bill turned around slowly, just in time to see a short boy with bronze hair and perfectly-pleated khakis leaving the stage. His measured expression turned into a smile as he sped to reach the other two. 

 

Bill choked back a sob, and his hand flew up to his cheek to apprehend a tear that hadn’t fallen yet. Fragmentary images slid through his mind sinuously, not finding anything to connect to, but for a moment they absolved him of his guilt. Careening down Up-Mile Hill on a rusted, too-big bike. “Silver,” he whispered to himself. “The Barrens.” He could hear Mr. Nell telling him and some other kids off for damming up a stream, and felt the weight of the ensuing gales of laughter in his chest. 

 

A bigger boy with blonde hair and shining eyes puffed up the stairs and stopped to accept his diploma. He shot a thumbs-up gesture to someone in the audience before walking over to the other three. The short boy and the tallish one grabbed one of his hands apiece and shook them vigorously in blustery congratulations. 

 

Bill’s eyes darted from the group to the stage and back again. He didn’t want to take his eyes off them; there was a magnetic force pulling his attention towards them, and he knew on some unconscious level that he belonged over there with them. He belonged with the tall boy with deep brown skin who strode confidently across the stage, pressed red and black flannel neatly tucked into khaki pants. Likewise with the fussed-over black-haired boy who froze in the middle of the stage, looking for all the world like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The six congregated to the side of the stage. The red-haired girl had reached for the black-haired boy, spinning him around and fondly resting her chin on his head. The six seemed to be waiting for someone –  _ for me _ , thought Bill.  _ They’re waiting for me.  _

 

And so, as his name was called, he did all he could not to run. There were no thunderous applause from the crowd as he walked. No one whooped or shrieked. A nervous buzzing in Bill’s ears drowned out any sound. As he clasped the principal’s hand, he looked out over the audience to scout out his father. 

 

His heart dropped into his socks as he noticed Zack Denbrough standing by the back door of the gymnasium. Bill was too far away to read his father’s expression, but a nagging voice in the back of his head whispered  _ he’s disappointed, he’s unimpressed, he wishes it was Georgie on stage and you in the sewer.  _ Zack pursed his lips and opened the door, slipping out. 

 

The buzzing in Bill’s ears swelled to a deafening drone as his eyes darted feverishly across the crowd. All inclination towards comporting himself properly was replaced with an urgent need to leave the stage. He could feel hot tears welling up, his throat nearly closed with the pain of biting down a sob.  _ I need to make it to my friends, they’re my friends and they’re right there and if I can just make it down those stairs, everything will be alright again,  _ he frantically reasoned with himself.  _ You bet your fur _ . 

 

He whirled, clutching the diploma close to his chest pocket. 

 

Where they had stood, there was nothing, and weight of his loss crashed back down.


End file.
